


In Hot Pursuit

by AsheRhyder



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dad Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Ensemble Cast, Expendable Extras, M/M, Second-Hand Embarrassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 14:10:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11419635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsheRhyder/pseuds/AsheRhyder
Summary: McCree can flirt, but he's never had someone actually take him up on the offers his silver tongue makes.Hanzo is determined to win whatever game they're playing, especially when the prize is a flustered cowboy.Gabriel and Jack just want to play cards.





	In Hot Pursuit

Jesse McCree is not a stupid man. He’s brilliant in a cunning, canny way. He has skills that make him a lethal opponent, and skills that allow him to take out his enemies without them ever knowing he’s on their tail. He’s seen the world, both the good and the bad, all the glitter and the grit. He can read a room with a glance; give him six uninterrupted seconds, and he can clear it. He speaks four languages fluently, can muddle through in three more, and ask for the bathroom in seven, eight if you count Omnic, which he doesn’t because he can only write it, not speak it. He can do complex math in his head, calculate the worth of most goods traded in bulk, and, on his worst days, he can even calculate the value of a human life down to the after-taxes dime.

Jesse McCree is not, by any means, stupid. 

But he  _ is _ stuck up a tree.  

 

“Not a word. Not one blessed word,” he growls at Genji, who peers up at him in equal parts amusement and bafflement. Thankfully, the ninja merely mimes zipping his lips and scales up to sit beside him. The tree is an ancient, massive thing that easily supports their weights, but there’s a labyrinth of lesser branches that catch in the buckles of McCree’s chaps and slip under his belt and tangle in his serape. Genji carefully extracts him from his leafy prison and helps him find his footing until he’s safely back on terra firma.

“I must admit that when you paged me on the comm to ask what I knew about climbing trees, I expected to be rescuing a cat, not a coyote.” 

“Genji, I swear...” McCree seethes, but his face is crimson with embarrassment, not anger. Genji holds up his hands. 

“If you do not explain, I must come to my own conclusions,” he says. “I doubt you will be as amused by them as I will be.”

McCree grumbles under his breath. 

“What was that?” Genji asks. 

“He winked at me.”

“Someone winked at you? Who? Why? How does that lead to you ending up in a tree?”

McCree’s skin turns an unhealthier shade of red. He pulls his hat down low and slouches so his serape hides as much of his face as possible.

“It was Hanzo, okay? Your brother and I were on the third floor training room, you know, the one with all them damn stupid walkways? And I may have said something or other, and he turned and winked at me before shooting one of them bots right between its eyes.”

Genji processes this a moment. 

“And this led to you in a tree how?”

McCree mumbles inarticulately. 

“Jesse…”

“I jumped off the damn walkway.”

Genji laughs so hard he has to sit down. 

It’s the greatest show anyone in Overwatch has ever seen. It always starts the same, but what happens afterwards is unpredictable, sometimes even unbelievable. McCree is well-known for being, as Ana puts it, “a charmer.” He’s got a silver tongue made all the sweeter for being earnest in the compliments he pays, and he’s generous with his time and physical affection without ever crossing into intrusive. Most of the recipients of his mild flirtations brush them off as part of his personality, just a little fun to brighten up their day.

But then there’s Hanzo.  

Genji’s stern, almost gloomy brother startles the first time McCree drops a compliment about his aim, but the second time he smiles back, and the third time his eyes hood as he rakes his gaze over McCree in serious assessment. 

“I am handy with a lot of things,” he purrs. “Would you care to discover more of them?” 

McCree misses a doorway and runs into the wall. 

 

“That sake’s pretty good, but I prefer a bit more bite to my liquor,” McCree says another day. Hanzo scoffs a bit, but the scowl in his eyes is belied by the smirk on his lips. 

“How predictable; such an unrefined taste,” he replies. His smirk stretches to a grin. “I can think of something with a better  _ bite _ , if it is  _ biting _ that interests you.”

McCree chokes on his drink. 

 

And then there’s the time McCree catches Hanzo coming out of the showers by the gym. 

“Hey Han--” McCree freezes with his tongue still against the roof of his mouth to finish the man’s name, his eyes tracking the rivulets of water that run down Hanzo’s bare chest as he towel dries his hair. Hanzo looks up, first in confusion about McCree’s sudden silence, and then in amusement at the motionless cowboy whose brain obviously suffers when all his blood runs south. 

“Do you see something you like?” He settles back so that one hip juts out farther than the other, and the towel around his waist slides perilously down to his hips. He lets one hand trace a trickle of water from his neck to his sternum. McCree makes a sound audible only to dogs and, face as red as his serape, promptly turns on his heel and races out of the room like his boots are on fire.

 

McCree’s reaction to Hanzo get more and more extreme, but if it ever occurs to him to simply avoid the archer, the idea never takes root. He tracks him down to call him in for meals, to deliver books left in the common room, and to train together. He waits for him in the hanger when Hanzo goes on a mission without him, and he looks for him when he returns from one without Hanzo. He continues to make the effort to put himself in Hanzo’s path regardless of the fact that he bolts like a startled colt every time their conversation turns warmer than purely platonic.

Hanzo smiles at him during movie night. McCree showers half the room in popcorn as he dives out the door. 

Hanzo purposefully trails a finger across McCree’s hand when he passes a bowl at dinner. McCree practically flips the table in his escape. 

Hanzo takes an abnormally big bite of his banana as they get into an elevator. McCree climbs up through the emergency hatch, shimmies up the elevator cable, and pries open the door two floors above.

 

On the upside, McCree hasn’t done this much cardio since he was a fresh-faced Blackwatch recruit. 

 

“That boy’s got more than just a screw or two loose,” Torbjörn mutters, watching as McCree bursts through the door, tears across the room, slams open a window, and jumps through. 

“We’ve known that for a while,” says Jack. He places a red six on a black seven and turns over a new card. 

“Move the seven to the eight,” says Gabriel as he leans over Jack’s shoulder. Jack ignores him and moves a five instead. Gabriel rolls his eyes and then pauses, looking thoughtful. “Huh.”

Jack’s eyebrow twitches. He doesn’t take the bait. With the kind of patience only former villains in search of redemption can muster, Gabriel glides over to the open window and watches McCree hightail it across the loading dock. 

“Mmm,” says Gabriel. Jack’s lips thin to a frown. 

“Quit playin’ with him and just spit out what’s so interesting,” Torbjörn says. Gabriel snorts. 

“Athena,” he asks, so sweetly that it sends shivers down Jack’s spine, “did McCree ever complete his Sugar Lessons?”

“Sugar Lessons?” Jack finally breaks. 

“Agent McCree is on record as having completed three out of eighteen trainings in the Social Skills: Romantic and Sexual category,” Athena says. “Last known activity in this training was in August, 2060.”

Gabriel cackles.

“There’s a training category for that?” Jack’s voice cracks in disbelief. 

“Traditionally, it’s The Honeypot Training,” Gabriel says between bouts of laughing. “Over the years we found enough recruits had such woefully incomplete sexual education that we had to start from scratch and make it a series. I thought I remembered that McCree never got to get through the whole thing.”

“You kept that boy on a tight leash until he was nearly thirty,” Jack grumbles. “It’s a wonder he had time to do  _ any _ other training.”

“Nah, it wasn’t about time.” Gabriel wipes his eyes. “If he’d been into it, I would have found time. McCree only got through lesson three because he lacked… let’s call it  _ disposition _ .”

Torbjörn puts down his wrench. 

“Do you mean to tell me that boy’s…”

“Shy.” Gabriel’s smile turns softer, almost sad, as he watches McCree scramble across a catwalk. He glances back to the still-open, still-empty door. “Show him an ounce of real affection and he heads for the hills.”

“Shame.” Jack shakes his head. “Still, it oughta be a good show, especially if he keeps jumping from heights. I put fifty on him breaking a leg.”

“I’ll see you that and raise you another fifty that Angela’s gonna have to resurrect him when he breaks his fool neck.” Torbjörn says. 

Gabriel stares at the doorway and frowns. 

“You’re both wrong. It’s his heart that’s gonna break.”

In deference to the fact that McCree is a thirty-eight year old man and capable of making his own decisions, Gabriel decides to let the situation resolve itself. In deference to the fact that McCree jumps out of a moving truck because Hanzo blows him a kiss, Gabriel abandons that resolution and drags his former protege off as soon as Mercy finishes patching him up from his rough landing. 

“Look,” he growls, “you can’t keep doing this.”

“Don’t see what business it is of yours,” McCree mutters sullenly. 

Reaper smothers the knee-jerk reaction to smack him upside the head and instead fixes him with the patient, knowing look which has always gone straight to McCree’s soft and squishy insides. 

“If it’s just a game, then you have to get your head in it properly. You’re going to get seriously hurt if you keep taking these dives,” he says. “If you’re serious, then you have to let him know you’re serious. A game is only good as long as everyone’s having fun.”

“You think this ain’t fun?” McCree makes an attempt at a rakish grin that convinces absolutely no one.

Gabriel reaches out and wipes a smear of blood off McCree’s chin. 

“Are you having fun?”

McCree responds by sinking into the folds of his serape, burying his face in the worn wool. Gabriel pats him on the shoulder. 

“Finish off the Sugar Lessons,” he says. 

“I ain’t trying to  _ seduce _ him,” McCree protests.

“No? Finish them off anyway. At least then if you’re floundering around like an idiot, it’ll be because you  _ are _ an idiot, not ignorant.”

McCree grumbles something that even enhanced hearing can’t quite pick up, but he nods, and Gabriel can’t smother the pleased, paternal smile that flashes across his face. 

 

McCree disappears into his room for the better part of the week and resurfaces looking tired and hungry in every sense of the word. Something changes in the way he walks, something subtle about the rhythm of his steps, the sway of his hips. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say he got laid,” Jack snorts. “Got any threes?”

“Not in the curriculum,” Gabriel says. “Go fish.” He feels like he should be happier, but he knows the “something” that changed is nothing less than total commitment; whatever McCree has decided, he’s throwing his full weight into it. They watch behind the flimsy excuse of playing cards as McCree saunters up to Hanzo and waits for the other man to look up from his book and acknowledge him. Hanzo makes him wait a few unnecessary seconds, and when he finally closes the book, his eyes twinkle with anticipation. 

But McCree straightens his shoulders, and Hanzo tenses, turning wary. McCree pulls a red rose and a box of chocolate out from under the drape of his serape. Hanzo’s eyes widen. 

“Hanzo Shimada,” McCree says and Jack starts wheezing because the cowboy  _ gets down on one knee _ , “I think you are a mighty fine individual. You’re smart as a whip, dedicated to whatever you put your mind to, and you strive to be a better person, which is a damn admirable goal. Could I persuade you to go on a date with me?” 

Hanzo takes the box and the flower and stares at them like he’s been handed something fragile and precious. His mouth works silently as the color drains out of his face and then returns full crimson. 

“Hanzo?” McCree wilts a little, smile crumbling at the edges. Hanzo clutches the presents to his chest. 

“I… I… I…” Something in the kitchen beeps, and Hanzo leaps to his feet. “I left the oven on!” And he disappears from the room, leaving only his book behind. McCree waits a minute, listens to the distant clatter of dropped pans and the abrupt death of the timer, and slowly smiles to himself. It’s a coyote smile, wild and cunning and hungry. He stands back up and tips his hat. 

“Well now,” he says, “how about that?”

 

McCree comes back from a three-day mission with one arm in a sling and the other wrapped around a bouquet of beautiful blue flowers. He bypasses medical to go searching for Hanzo, a quest made easier because everyone takes one look at him and points in the direction the archer was last seen. Hanzo freezes like a deer in headlights when McCree sweeps into the communal rec room, drops to his knees again, and holds out the flowers. 

“Howdy, morning glory,” he grins. “I saw these and thought of you. They reminded me of the beauty of your dragons. It’s a real treat to see you call them. All that power and focus, all wrapped up in one majestic package. What do you say to getting dinner with me?” 

Hanzo takes the bouquet half in a daze, staring at vibrant azure petals the exact same shade as his dragons’ scales with something bordering on reverence. He suddenly shakes his head, composing himself except for the bright red blush that spreads across his face. 

“I--water. I have to find a vase for these. With water. Because they are lovely, and I do not wish them to wilt.” His feet move without any real input from his brain, carrying him and his precious cargo away. 

“Er, Hanzo?” McCree flinches and smiles at the same time. “That’s a window.” 

But Hanzo is already out and scaling the exterior wall as easy as breathing. McCree chuckles a little as one blue blossom falls out and Hanzo’s arm snaps back into view of the window to grab it before disappearing again. 

“Well, all right then.” 

 

McCree’s next mission takes him back to the States, and when he returns it’s to raucous laughter that Hanzo can hear well outside the hangar. Hanzo debates making a break for his room; he only came down to make sure Genji was all right, and judging by the loud, synthetic-sounding laugh ringing through the room, his brother is fine. Curiosity pulls at him, though, so much so that it flares into irritation when Soldier steps out of the hangar doorway first and blocks his view of everything inside. Furthermore, Jack just stops in the middle of the path, unreadable visor tilted down to stare at Hanzo. 

“Yes?” Hanzo snaps. 

“He probably means well,” Jack says, sending alarms ringing in the back of Hanzo’s head. “Don’t shoot him. It was carnival season.” And then he steps aside. 

McCree comes into view carrying two large stuffed toys nearly as large as he is. One is blue and the other is purple, and at first glance they resemble wavy pool noodles, but a closer look reveals that they are a cartoonist’s approximation of Asian dragons.

“They didn’t have two blue ones,” says McCree with an apologetic smile. “I got as near as I could. They’re soft as clouds, honeybee, and I thought you might like ‘em for when you’ve worked yourself to the bone and need a rest. You work awful hard, sweetheart. Always gotta be the best. Make sure you don’t hurt yourself, okay?”

Hanzo accepts the toy dragons without thinking when McCree offers them; for all their cumbersome size, they are light and pliable. The cloth skins shine vaguely iridescent, smooth and cool, more than comfortable to touch. 

“I… thank you,” he says, feeling his face go hot and red against the dragons. “They feel wonderful.” McCree beams like the sun coming out after a week’s worth of rain. Hanzo clutches the toys closer to his chest and wishes the ground would swallow him up. “I have to… I have to go put these away before someone trips over them. I would not wish them to get dirty.” 

It’s difficult to vanish while carrying two stuffed toys as tall as he is, but he hauls the dragons over his shoulders and makes it through the hall in record time. 

 

McCree returns from vacation with a tan, two superficial bullet wounds, a black eye, and a present for Hanzo wrapped in stained canvas. Hanzo dreads unwrapping it. The weeks preceding McCree’s vacation were almost pleasant save for the moment when the intense admiration and adoration send Hanzo’s heart to the heavens and his feet for the hills. Whatever McCree has for him that gives him that coyote smile is sure to make Hanzo’s racing pulse hit the nitro. 

“How did you manage to harm yourself this badly on  _ vacation _ ?” Hanzo demands as McCree saunters up. 

“Are you worried for me? You don’t gotta, sugar. This was just a little…” he trails off with a gesture that doesn’t actually explain anything. “Anyway, you should see the other guys.”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow. McCree reaches down to where he usually carries his flashbangs and pulls up the canvas bag. 

“Now, don’t go telling the others I brought you this, especially not Winston ‘cause this’ll get his suit in a twist right quick,” McCree says, “but I figured I oughta get  _ something _ out of having my vacation spoiled by a bunch of smugglers, especially since I couldn’t stick around to collect on any bounties. So I took a cut before the authorities arrived.”

“What-- McCree, you did not have to--” Hanzo’s jaw unhinges slightly as McCree unwraps three rough-cast gold bars the size of his hand. 

“I figured, jewelry ain’t a real good idea with the kind of lives we lead, but everybody likes gold, right?” He shrugs and drops the ingots into Hanzo’s frozen hands. Immediately Hanzo’s dragons manifest, climbing down his arms to inspect the treasure that has their master so distressed. 

“What are-- how did-- why--” Hanzo looks up from the gold to McCree. “McCree, this is too much.”

But McCree just laughs and shakes his head. 

“I’d give you the world if I could, but this is about all an outlaw can manage. I figure you probably know how to get it discreetly handled, if you want. Or you can keep it as a memento. Your dragons certainly seem to like it. Whatever you want to do, treasure, it’s all yours.” 

The dragons each take a bar in their claws and bear them to the ground, slithering away with excited chittering. Hanzo’s face turns as red as McCree’s serape at the choice of endearments. 

“I…”

“Would you like to go dancing with me?” McCree steps a little closer. His voice drops to a husky whisper, warm and deep. “There’s a little place out on the bay I could show you. We’d have it all to ourselves, just you and me and the sunset on the surf. We could dance until the stars come out.” 

Hanzo is saved from his heart exploding by a flash of green that drops out of the overhead vent. Genji’s dragon, having noticed its siblings’ acquisitions and not wanting to feel left out, latches on to the final bar and drags it back into the ducts. Hanzo spits a curse after it and gives McCree an apologetic glance. 

“I should catch it before it takes the gold somewhere conspicuous. We do not desire unnecessary questions.”

McCree just smiles and tips his hat. 

Gabriel drifts in as Hanzo takes off. He watches the departure, then turns and stares down McCree. 

“Well, at least he used the door.”

McCree beams. 

“I know, progress, right?”

Gabriel sighs. 

 

Hanzo knows his sins are many and great, and that no amount of forgiveness will ever wash the worst of them away, but he’s convinced that cosmic justice has a warped sense of humor when a forgotten skylight gives out from under him and drops him deep into the heart of the Talon base the team is investigating. Several pieces of equipment break his fall, which is probably all that keeps him from breaking his neck, but everything goes dark, and the last thing he hears is McCree’s voice over the comm, screaming his name. 

It’s not, he thinks, the worst way to go. 

He doesn’t die, of course. Fate isn’t about to let him off that easily. He regains consciousness in an unimaginative, windowless room with one light set in the ceiling high above. Several Talon grunts bicker over his head about the virtues of cuffing his arms to the back of the chair or to the chains around his legs. Neither will do them over much good, as the chains have enough give that he can slip them loose when he throws his weight back to knock the chair over. He comes up kicking, catching one grunt under the chin and another in the chest. The third manages to get out of the way, and she scrambles back and draws her weapon. Hanzo drops into a crouch and prepares to spring to the side, but something suddenly pounds on the door, one, twice, and then the metal panel flies inwards, crumpled by a powerful kick. Summer sunlight streams in, hot and heavy, followed by the thunder of rapid gunshots. The Talon agents fall as if struck by lightning. 

Hanzo watches the light fade to reveal McCree. The rictus of rage on the cowboy lasts just long enough for him to finish securing the room, and then it falls away in favor of sweet, earnest concern. 

“Darling? Are you alright?” He kneels to help Hanzo remove the chains. Part of Hanzo’s brain supplies a few interesting thoughts about how McCree could make him feel much better while he’s down there, but it doesn’t seem worthy of the tenderness he receives. McCree gently rubs Hanzo's ankles even though he wasn’t captured long enough for the restraints to do any real harm. It’s only when McCree goes to press a kiss to Hanzo’s foot that everything becomes overwhelming, drowning him in desires he doesn't even have names for. He chokes out a little cry, and McCree freezes. 

“Too much?” McCree asks. His eyes are honest, open and clear. He will abide by whatever Hanzo says. Hanzo wants him so much he think he might actually combust. 

“Our first kiss will not be your mouth upon my foot,” he states. McCree blinks, then grins. He uses his grip on Hanzo’s ankle to pull him closer. 

“Well, sugar, I think I can accommodate that.”

 

In the hall outside, Reaper grabs Soldier:76 by the shoulder before he can get closer to the interrogation room. 

“Nothing you want to see there,” he says. “How’s the rest of the compound?” Soldier sighs. 

“Cleared,” he says. “Just waiting on them.”

Reaper pulls out a pack of cards. 

“Crazy Eights?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Tsol for beta-ing!


End file.
